The palace gates slowly opened.
Sunlight poured in to greet the royal procession as it stepped forward, led by the one who had now become the beacon of a nation's hope—Prince Arion, the newly crowned Heir of Light.
He rode a tall, majestic white stallion, its silver mane gleaming like the dawn. The horse's stride was steady and graceful, as if it too knew this was no ordinary day. Behind Arion walked his father, King Balderick VII, followed by kings and nobles from across the lands of Paragon. Their procession flowed like a golden river.
The entire city of Aetherlyn erupted in euphoria.
Citizens showered the roads with flower petals, raining hope from joyful hands. Cries of celebration, folk songs, and the tolling of bells turned the day into one of the most jubilant moments in anyone's memory.
Arion smiled. A genuine smile—not because of the crown on his head, but because he saw his people laughing, living, and loving their homeland.
But… among the falling petals, something unexpected arrived.
A jet-black raven darted from the sky and landed on Arion's shoulder.
Its body was thin, eyes glowing crimson—and in its tiny claw, it held a single blood-red flower. It placed the flower into Arion's hand, and without a sound, took flight again, vanishing into the wind. Arion stared at the flower, frowning. He recognized the raven—it was the same one he had seen that morning on his bedroom window.
A sign... or a warning?
Before he could ponder it further, the procession suddenly halted.
At the far end of the road, a figure appeared—mounted atop an armored horse, flanked by guards clad in dark attire, their faces hidden behind polished metal masks. An aura of death surrounded them.
Allesio.
King of Pyrefall.
His escort—known only as the Servants—were elite guards and lethal warriors. Loyal to the bone, they were willing to die for their king without hesitation. Their skills in battle were the stuff of terrifying legends across Pyrefall's long and violent history.
Allesio's eyes fixed directly on the royal procession. He dismounted, walking forward with a calm yet chilling demeanor. A thin smirk crossed his lips—mocking, wrapped in false courtesy.
"Well, well… how cruel this world is. Everyone gets an invitation… except me. But worry not. I'm quite independent—I came on my own, uninvited... hehehe."
No one responded. The nobles stood silent. The kings turned away. Even the common folk were mute, as if the air itself had frozen.
Allesio raised his hand, then… threw something.
A small figurine of armor—insignificant in size, but heavy with meaning—soared through the air and landed in Arion's hands.
King Balderick narrowed his eyes, visibly on guard.
"What is it you want?
What game are you playing this time?"
Allesio chuckled, his voice cold as midnight fog.
"Oh, don't be so quick to accuse. It's just a gift… nothing more. And don't worry, I'll be leaving now."
He climbed back onto his horse, glancing once more at the King with a gaze that was impossible to read—part scorn, part threat.
"Until we meet again, uncle...
Our business in the Chronicle is far from over."
And with that, he turned away.
His black steed carried his lean, dangerous form out of the city, leaving behind a silence that pressed on the chest like a heavy fog.
Hours later, along a lonely road heading west, the raven returned. The same one—sharp eyes, wings as dark as a starless night.
It flew low, hovering before Allesio… staring deep into him.
Allesio let out a tense breath.
"I've done my part…
Even though, at first, you sounded naïve."
The raven didn't respond.
It merely turned and flew back into the high sky—toward whoever its true master was.
Allesio exhaled deeply. Whether from exhaustion… or something far heavier, no one could tell.
"I don't even know why I'm part of this war anymore...
Maybe he'll fail because of us.
But in the end… perhaps everything was meant to fail," he muttered, as his black horse resumed its path—carrying him into the distance, along with the unresolved mystery he bore.